


The Long Winding Road

by elluvias



Series: Home Is Behind [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, actually less of a mention, also knitting, and Fading, and glorfindel kills people, and mental illness, and more explanation as to how the durins survived bofa, and more like glorfindel talking about gondolin, and now an art chapter to make people laugh and recover from the pain, and now there's mentions of gondolin, and ptsd, and the day it fell, angsty, but no one anyone really cares about, elves seriously aren't sane, especially glorfindel, immortality really isn't fun kiddies, not after so long, or friendship if you don't, surprise vala appearances, there's slash if you squint, this mentions suicide, which sort of hurts the soul, with mildly plot relevant pictures, yes i said knitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elluvias/pseuds/elluvias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's little happiness to be found in immortality.</p><p>(Yea now I'm shoving important Home is Behind knowledge in here...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diemarysues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/gifts), [jezebel_rising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezebel_rising/gifts).



> It is part of the canon of Home is Behind. This is coming from a long discussion with the lovely jezebel_rising over the potential (in)sanity of elves. And is also a nod to a discussion diemarysues and I had over whether I should or should not put Dwalin and Glorfindel together. I hope you wonderful people like the gift.

Immortality was not sunshine and roses. It was not looking beautiful for centuries and calmly watching the goings on of the world with an indulgent smile. It was not remaining aloof. It was the slowly dawning realization that nothing lasted forever. From the blooms of the flowers, the smiles of your friends, to the stones of your home. It was watching mistakes being repeated over and over again. It was watching war and peace, life and death, the cycle of the seasons going on and on and on with no end in sight.

The flush of youth, where passion seemed so strong and bright, where hope still lived, Glorfindel missed it. He missed the unblemished pieces of his own soul, the occasional broken off key notes in his soul song. He missed feeling safe and contented. He missed when he did not have dreams of smoke, fire, and ash, of screams filling the air and a city falling. He missed when he was not so good at meteing out death. When his soul purpose in existence seemed to be to bring wrath and ruin to those who opposed him.

All his kindred began to wear away with time, even as their faces remained perfect and preserved in a semblance of youth. Glorfindel knew of many who had not been able to _take_ it. This unending journey, the pain of horrors inflicted upon them, and the knowledge that some wounds to the soul would never truly heal. That there would be scars and phantom pains from pieces broken and lost inside them. Glorfindel had found many friends dead, taken by their own hands. Another wound to his soul, another scar to bare, and yet he kept walking.

The worst was always the Fading. To listen as notes began to quiet, the shine becoming muted, the shadows lengthening and wrapping around, the weight of grief becoming too much, crushing slowly everything within the one who had once been a friend or family. Slowly they would bleed out, days, months, years, until finally blessedly their pain would cease and their soul was gone and their heart finally stilled. It was when the absence of those beats was a kindness, that the pain had ended, and there would be time for peace and healing in Mandos’ halls.

Glorfindel had nearly Faded, once. He had felt the beginning pains, had felt the sickness begin. It had only stopped because, amusedly, he had reminded himself that he had not in fact _Loved_ Ecthelion nor Egalmoth. Not in the way they had always Loved each other. Oh how he had hated at times sharing bunks with them. It had been all well and good that they were friends, dearest friends, but Glorfindel would not let them think that maybe Glorfindel had wanted more.

No, no.

So he had pulled himself up by the bootstraps, taking his sword and turning his back on Greenwood. Some of the happiest memories of his long life lived in those shadowed trees. Yet like Gondolin there was nothing except pain left. Nothing to help him keep his hold on his sanity. He had lost his oldest friends. He had lost the strange little hobbits who had wormed themselves into his heart like adorable burrs. Perhaps Elrond had something, or a great many somethings that he needed dead.

He never cared, not really, that the younger races thought him to be a bit off. Honestly he was. All of them, all his honored glorious kinsmen were a touch insane. Glorfindel was quite unashamedly proud of how easily he could make others shift uncomfortably, how he could make their hearts flutter in fear (or arousal), how they never could predict anything, save that he was going to be unpredictable. Most of the time they didn’t take him too seriously, for he attempted to make everything appear a game and amusing. He did not toy needlessly nor meddle too much in the affairs of kingdoms or the world.

Most of the time, when sat by Elrond’s side, they assumed it was a position of honor.

Not that Lord Elrond was keeping him within arm’s reach to prevent _incidents_. That the great kindly Lord of Rivendell more often than not was stomping on Glorfindel’s toes during dinners when outsiders were present, or once they’d turned a corner and no eyes save elven were watching, that the great lord would take Glorfindel by the ear and drag him to Glorfindel’s rooms.

Maintaining status quo was boring. Also not in Glorfindel’s admittedly contrary nature. No, he liked to ruffle feathers, he liked to cause a stir and have all eyes on him, yet not looking. Never actually _looking_. The younger races, the mortal races, never cared to peel off the masks they all wore. They never dared to truly dig into the flawed natures, the broken natures, of the elves. They never remembered, or wanted to, that elves were not perfect. Were not, never had been, and likely never will be. If they were then Glorfindel could say that there really wouldn’t be many elves in Arda.

Yet that meant little now. For there was a group, small and selected, that were learning that Glorfindel was not, in fact, a well of harmless sass. That beneath his smiles, lay sharp teeth, and sharper claws, and a dark unfurling rage that began to rumble and roar.

Glorfindel’s hand fisted in the hair of the transgressor, lifting the dwarf upwards, til they were eye level. His smile was dangerous now, standing in the middle of what appeared to be a Coup D’etat in regards to Erebor’s current monarchy.

“I would suggest you call this off. For I am _very_ bored, Master Dwarf. So very very bored and you do not wish to become my distraction.”

His voice was a low silken purr. The dwarf kicked uselessly and the others had taken their attention off Thorin, and carelessly given it to him. One unfortunately stupid dwarf took a threatening step forward, hands clenching on a war axe. It was the last conscious decision the dwarf made. In a movement that was as beautifully fluid as it was deadly, a knife seemed to magically appear in that dwarf’s throat. He fell to the ground, dead in seconds, in a puddle of his own blood.

“Last chance. Call this off and seek mercy from the King.” It was a final, light warning, delivered in a tone that had the hairs on all the dwarves bodies standing up because of the mildness that lay within.

“Never you damnable tree shagger. Bar-“

As far as last words went, Glorfindel mused, those were not nearly as inventive as it could have been. It was quick, the death of the dwarf in his hold. Glorfindel didn’t even care about the blood that covered him. He had been covered in it so many times it hardly registered anymore. Glancing at Thorin who looked enraged and barely concealed by Dwalin who held an axe out ready to kill any dwarf who came near, Glorfindel felt a little thread of relief that Thorin seemed unharmed.

Then he took his eyes off the one he had sworn to protect and let them fall to the ones he was going to kill.

The fight was quick as it was gruesome, and sadly outmatched. It was over too quick, Glorfindel finding himself, once again, in the center of dead bodies. They were dead, he had killed them, and it was as it always seemed to be.

“How did you know?”

Dwalin had asked him, hours later, after they finished rooting out traitors and executing them. Glorfindel had washed the blood from his body by then, changed into new clothes, and was working on his newest favorite pastime. Glancing up from his knitting needles Glorfindel felt his lips curve into a wry smile.

“Elves are taught to look for the signs for imminent kinslaying and how to prevent it so clusterfucks don’t happen.”

There was no recognition to the uncouth joke and Glorfindel mentally sighed. Shaking his head slightly he stared into the dwarf’s serious eyes.

“I have lived many years, Master Dwalin. I have seen many betrayals, I have seen much death, and I know when someone has a killing intent.”

“As good as ye are at fighting, lad, yer a shitty knitter.”

_Thank you for saving my King_.

Glorfindel barked out a laugh, reading Dwalin’s intent…or perhaps the dwarf’s mind. It was hard to tell some days. It didn’t matter though, which it was. Something in that phrase eased the dark prowling beast inside him.

“I am, aren’t I?”

The attempt at the scarf was horrendous. There were dropped stitches in some rows, extra ones on others. It was going to be a lumpy hideous creation.

“Tell ye what. Finish that thing and I’ll make sure it has a home.”

_I’m going to take that scarf and wear it even if I have to steal the stupid thing from you, elf_.

Glorfindel didn’t want to acknowledge he dropped another stitch when Dwalin said…thought…implied that. That he had lost, for a moment, the steady haze that surrounded him. That surprise, undisguised, unfeigned, crossed his features as the grizzled dwarven warrior grinned at him like a cat who had finally caught a particularly clever and vexing mouse. Nor did he acknowledge that heat, strange and almost foreign, stirred in his heart and soul as Dwalin kept staring.

Dwalin’s soul was so strange. Grizzled and scarred, like the dwarf’s body, yet there was something else in there too. Amongst the holes and the oddness that all dwarven souls had. It made Glorfindel want to explore. For Dwalin seemed unique in more ways than just being his usually favorite dwarf in Erebor. Nori was Dwalin’s only contender, but Nori was never captured quite as easily as Dwalin seemed to be.

Yet Glorfindel felt maybe he had been the one to walk into a trap.

Dwalin left soon after, without a goodbye or much explanation at all. Glorfindel watched him leave, his eyebrows furrowing together as he felt… more than he had in centuries. Emotions he could not quite name nor recognize.

Immortality was not fun. It did not grant many, if any, answers to life’s questions. It was hard, it was draining, it wore down on you until there was little left. Yet Glorfindel could not find it in him to regret his long life right now. Not at this point, with strange curious feelings fluttering about inside him. There would be regret one day, and perhaps he’d join his fellows across the Sea or die in battle. Perhaps some other dark gruesome fate awaited him. Until that fate came though, he would finish this scarf and perhaps, maybe, coax a smile from Dwalin’s lips.


	2. Elvish Wine Is Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel talks about the fall of Gondolin and Dwalin is comforting.

Sometimes even the mighty fell, often more times than not the mighty fell quite often. What made them mighty was that they picked themselves back up. It was something he had been taught in Gondolin, many many years ago. It was among a myriad of lessons learned in those distant days that had stayed, somehow, through the Ages. Then again those of Gondolin always remembered better than their kindred, had seen different than their kindred, had felt and experienced life different than their kindred.

Glorfindel had no words, usually, to describe the complex simplicity of Gondolin. There was no place like it in Arda before or since. Perhaps Rivendell was close, but it wasn’t, not really. Rivendell’s culture was nothing like Gondolin’s and the Greenwood, well Glorfindel wasn’t about to make a point for point comparison on how very not like Gondolin Thranduil’s kingdom was.

The thing that bothered him the most was… He could not go back. It wasn’t that Gondolin’s ruins were unreachable, the pass hadn’t been destroyed during the invasion nor had the secret way out been destroyed. The way was open. He could go traipse off into the mountains and see the broken city, the blackened earth, the remains of those who had died, left unburied and unburned. Perhaps he’d even find his own corpse, the memory of his first death still lingered in the shadows of his mind, he knew where he’d be able to find it unless something had happened to it after his passing.

But the death that had happened there, the atrocities and horrors had tainted the lands in ways that were reminiscent of Dagorlad, the Dead Marshes, and Mordor. It was the land of grief and evil, where the screams still echoed and the sparks of swords clashing could be seen. Gondolin’s valley was trapped in its greatest and final nightmare. He could never go home lest he wanted to be touched by that ancient unhealed festering wound, where it could reach and touch the pieces of him already burned, broken, and blackened by his fight with the Balrog.

He remembered standing at the edge with Ecthelion and Egalmoth centuries upon centuries before, collapsing together as they grieved. They could not search the wreckage and see if anything could be salvaged, they could not try to heal the hurts inflicted, they could not rebuild. All they could do was stand and cry bitter tears, for the only things that could come to them were their weapons and armor. Not because Mandos had been kind and had given them their things when they had been sent back from the Halls of Waiting, but because elven weapons were much cleverer and much more aware than elvish rope. They had come when called, had found ways to come back to all of them, even though it had taken years for them to do so.

The only tangible pieces of home he had left.

“I’ve never seen you look this bitter before, laddie.”

Glorfindel let his golden gaze sweep up from the beautiful vista before him. Slender fingers carefully grasping onto a bottle of elvish wine as he tilted his head to look at Dwalin. Beautiful earnest Dwalin, something like longing curled up bitterly in Glorfindel’s breast before he looked away. He heard Dwalin’s sharp intake of breath, knowing that the dwarf had seen the difference in eye color and had noticed it. The dwarc came closer as Glorfindel took a long dreg of the sweet and potent substance, quite aware that he was likely putting his Greenwood kin to shame by sheer consumption.

“You have known me for less than half a year, Master Dwalin. Rest assured, I can manage to fall into brooding piques far greater than your beloved king. It is neither common nor uncommon for me to have moods.”

The dwarf made a sound, something akin to understanding or maybe it was more along placating. Glorfindel was not about to try and disassemble the sound. He was more concerned with his own storm of feelings, his own issues, ones he often ignored to continue to manage to be sane for everyone else. Even if sane was a relative term. Perhaps it was easier to say that Glorfindel often pushed his own pain down so he could be something stable, reliable, for his friends and charges.

“Aye but this seems…”

Dwalin trailed off, floundering for a word adequate to describe the apparent wrongness with Glorfindel’s demeanor. The Gondolin elf knew that at least, and was becoming increasingly aware that Dwalin was not leaving.

“Tell me, Dwalin, what do you _actually_ know about me? What tales have you heard?”

“You’re an elf, ye killed a Balrog, ye cook a decent meal, and yer a bloody pain in my arse.”

Humming Glorfindel thought for a moment as he took another sip of wine. The balcony was littered with empty bottles, enough to make at least a Sindar or two blackout drunk, but Glorfindel wasn’t Sindar. He was Noldor, or closer to Noldor than Sindar. He was of Gondolin, and this only got him barely over drunk.

“I hail from Gondolin. A city you probably didn’t even learn much about in whatever history classes you paid attention to. It was my home. A city bigger than Erebor, bigger than Minas Tirath. An elvish city as important to my people as khazad-dum is to yours, and just as bitterly lost.”

His eyes went to the horizon.

“My home was a beautiful place, once upon a time. It sat within a hidden valley, far more hidden than Rivendell, and mountains surrounded us on all sides giving us the illusion of safety. It was mainly carved from moonstone and it always had a beautiful iridescent luster to it like the inside of seashells. There were houses made of obsidian too, and silver and gold accents throughout the city. Even though it was mainly made of rock and metal we did not ignore the trees. We wove our buildings around them, we integrated the living wood into our houses and markets. We had gardens too, hanging from the sides of the buildings, on the roofs, on the ground. We had fountains, artificial streams that flowed through the streets, waterfalls that tumbled off the sides of buildings and into pools and ponds made for swimming during the hot days of summer, we had fountains made for meeting, and others made for drinking. All the fountains had labels, telling which were drinkable and which ones weren’t. All the buildings had running water in them too, we had built Gondolin atop a large hotspring, and we used the water to heat our homes in the winter. We also had public bath houses as well as private ones. Much like Erebor.”

Glorfindel could feel Dwalin’s gaze on him as he talked about a city that no one else on Arda could remember seeing. The others who had were either dead or in Valinor, which was close to synonymous anyway. He was the last Gondolin elf still alive, of course there were children of those who had survived still running around. He was alone, and it was hard some days to bear it with grace. Today was not such a day.

“There was also always music in the air. We had the standard wind chimes of course, but we had also carved holes in our buildings so when the wind blew in the right way it music would come out. The music was always different, was always unique, depending on how the wind blew, or how the water flowed through some of the pipes, or what the smiths were smithing. Sometimes I used to think that it echoed the song of Making, our City’s music, for it was varied and beautiful, sometimes sad, sometimes joyous, and it was alive in a way that I’ve never heard since.”

Closing his eyes against the world before him Glorfindel took advantage of Dwalin’s continued silence. His tongue came out and licked his lips as he brought in a shuddering breath.

“But our greatest achievement in our city wasn’t the buildings or the architecture. It was the people inside. We were unique amongst our kin, we were so isolated form the rest that we had our own very strong dialect of queyna, interspersed with sindarian. I’ve yet to find someone who hadn’t lived in Gondolin to understand what I was saying whenever I switched. But language wasn’t the only thing unique, so were our people. You wouldn’t believe it now, Dwalin, not with those who still remain, but elves used to be as varied as men in our appearance. It didn’t matter, not like it does now, who had what skin or hair color. It didn’t matter who had what sex or gender. It was just…you were who you were and appearance only spoke of what House someone might belong in. It wasn’t always because some people married into other houses and others might have a parent from one house and another from another. Usually you looked for an insignia somewhere… and I won’t say our city was perfect, because it wasn’t, not always, feuds still happened and people still fought but it was so different than anyplace else I’ve ever been that I don’t….I don’t feel comfortable really anywhere else.

Because it isn’t home, not to me.

I miss seeing the statues of the Valar. We had one for each, even Morgoth. It is partially why he came after us, that stupid statue of him. Each house of Gondolin was tied to a Vala or Valar, save Morgoth. His stood alone, untouched, undefaced, not worshiped but visible. A stark reminder that no matter how great, anyone could fall to evil, no matter how wise, anyone can be tricked. Evil was everywhere and it must be watched for, we must be vigilant with ourselves and others to try and keep ourselves from falling prey. We must respect it, we must face it, because to hide it was to fear it and give it power. We must not destroy the statue for falling to the rashness of anger plants the seeds for evil within us, it makes us more susceptible to its call. We must speak of it, not always, but enough to let everyone know that evil is not a rare occurrence. That philosophy gave us an edge over Morgoth, and he hated it, he hated how we respected him as a foe and hated him for his actions not for his existence. That combined with our martial proweress made us one of his greatest enemies.”

Leaning back Glorfindel practically collapsed against the mountain side, taking some comfort in the solid cool rock. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, still too caught up in remembering a place long gone, a home he’d never see again.

“We were betrayed.” Glorfindel’s hands clenched as he felt the fury bubble up within him once more. “By Turgon’s nephew, by one who I counted as a friend. By a brother in arms, by one who should have felt a need to protect Gondolin as well. What is worse, though, perhaps, is that the slaughter could have been avoided. That all that death could have been just a potential future not what had happened because my king’s bloody pride couldn’t take a bloody back seat. We were warned, well not that I knew we were warned, none of the lords knew we had been warned of a threat to Gondolin and that we were told by the Vala who had shown us the valley that it would be compromised. When we found that tidbit out Ecthelion and I may have, perhaps, given Turgon matching black eyes and a broken nose.”

There was a desperate snort from Glorfindel, grasping, or trying to find the humor in a dark situation. It was what he had always tried to do, to laugh even when there was little cause to find laughter. That was why Glorfindel had been so attached to Egalmoth, they had fed off each other, one terrible pun after the next or ridiculous off color jokes. It had made being alive during the war of wrath bearable.

He felt a hand on his, warm and calloused, far more calloused than his own. It was one of the blasted perks of being an elf, callouses were hard to form and rarely stayed. Even without opening his eyes Glorfindel could tell that Dwalin’s hands were bigger than his own. Such a strange thing, Glorfindel was taller than the dwarf, but Dwalin was thicker, bigger boned.

“They came during a festival.” Glorfindel’s voice was rough now, raw. He opened his eyes to look out at the horizon, the golden hue of his gaze bright and iridescent. “The guards weren’t looking outwards, more focused on potential brawls that could happen than an attack. I was dancing with my nephews and nieces when I heard the first scream. Sabriel, a cousin of mine, was a gifted seer. They had dropped in the middle of the dance, screaming in pain and terror, blood pouring from their nose and eyes as the severity of the vision assaulted them. Then others gifted with sight did the same, some were adults, some were children. It gave us perhaps ten minutes of warning before we heard the drums of Morgoth’s army and the roars of his monsters. When we realized what was happening Turgon brought us together, the Lords of the Houses, and told us what we knew already. Gondolin was going to be lost, and that we were not going to aim for victory, but for time for our civilians to try and escape. Our battle plan was hasty, we did not have the benefit of time, and we were dispersed to go rally our Houses, all able bodied beings to fight with us, and the children and younglings to flee through a secret passage.

Despite what history now portrays my house as peerless warriors with brave hearts and strong minds, that’s not what our primary purpose was in Gondolin. The House of Golden Flowers belonged to Este and Lorien, we were healers and dreamers, we learned how to fight so we could get to the wounded on the battlefield and defend them until we could get them to safety. We learned to kill so we could preserve the lives of our friends and allies. I remember every word I spoke to my men, my family, to make them lay down their lives so others might live. I remember every single word, every gesture, I used to convince them to die gloriously so that Morgoth would not have true victory.”

Glorfindel paused as he swallowed. Uncaring, really as he felt tears falling down his cheeks and his heart breaking with every beat. The only thing that kept him grounded was the silent presence of the dwarf beside him, holding his hand firmly. It anchored him as his own words echoed in his head.

_My brothers! My friends! The day is dark, the stars are shrouded, and I will not lie to you, we will be drinking together in Mandos’ halls this evening. The shadows have fallen on Gondolin and she will be lost. Our city, our home will naught be ruins and ash in the face of Morgoth’s forces._

_Look, my kin, to what he has brought to this fight! Look at what he has decided he **needs** to bring to destroy us. Do not look at this in despair! Laugh! Laugh at what our enemy needs to bring about our ruin! Laugh at the foolhardy mistake he is making! He brings his greatest weapons, he brings his most powerful forces, does he think that we are rabbits to be easily swayed, to be easily frightened and turn our back so he may slay us? Morgoth does not know us! Morgoth has made a mistake he will regret for the rest of his pitiful life! We will not cower! We will not flee! We will make them pay for every inch they gain. We will make these dark bastards weep, for they may win the battle but it will not be a victory! They will not revel in our destruction! We may lose the battle but we will have victory on this eve!_

_We will give our families time to escape. We will give our loved ones a chance for life. Morgoth wants us to be eradicated. Morgoth wants us to fall into nothingness! We will not let him! There will be survivors! There will be life for our children! He will have failed! He will fail! Gondolin will fall! We, my brothers, will die! But our children will survive! Our children will carry on! There will be a future!_

_There is no surrender! There is no retreat! The House of The Golden Flowers will bring light to the darkness! We will burn brighter than any star before we die!_

_Now take up your arms! Glorquesse! GLORQUESSE! **GLORQUESSE**!_

“You’re lucky you only had a single firedrake attack Erebor. You’re lucky that it could be rebuilt, that you even had hope of reclaiming it even after it was lost for so long. I don’t have that with Gondolin. There were at least half a dozen fire drakes that rained down fire upon the city, there were squadrons of balrogs, not to mention orcs and men. There was so much death that day, so much destruction, pain and horror inflicted upon my people that we can’t return to the land. We can’t rebuild, we can’t even try to gather any artifacts that might be salvageable. If it doesn’t have enough magic to get itself out then it’s stuck. Not that there are many amongst my people who even want to go there, let alone know where it is. I’m the last survivor of Gondolin in Arda, and survivor is even a stupid word to use because I died that day. I died upon the slopes killing one of the most monstrous and powerful Balrogs to ever rear its ugly head. You don’t survive killing a Balrog, there’s no way to do it, because it’s a twisted maia. The only way to kill it is to destroy it, and to destroy it you have to use your life, your soul itself, against it. When I ended up in the Halls of Waiting I was missing lots of…me, there were others too, others who had killed Balrogs during the battle, who were looking sort of like mangled puzzles. We were…healed is the wrong way to put it, we were remade, we were given pieces to replace what we had lost in the battle. Making us…more than what we had been before, no longer entirely elvish, but not exactly a maia either.

It seemed like days, in the Halls of Waiting, as we were put back together. Though apparently it was weeks and months. Then after we had been fixed up, Mandos came to me, Ecthelion, and Egalmoth and told us we were going back. That Eru needed us to fight in the war. We couldn’t come back though, greater than we had left or even equal to what we had been. We had to come back diminished in some capacity, locked up in ways, and only when the darkest moments were to come would the seals containing our power would be released. It has been Ages since I’ve been sent back, Dwalin. _Ages_ where every time I’ve looked in the mirror I’ve seen blue eyes instead of gold, ages where I’ve felt something binding me.”

Glorfindel couldn’t help it as he leaned to the side, leaning into Dwalin’s steady bulk. He didn’t care that the tears were still falling down his cheeks, that his body was trembling as he fought to keep his voice steady. The sweet scent of the wine was heavy on his breath, he knew, but it was a moment he felt he deserved. This weakness as he tried to grasp for comfort he’d not had for years beyond counting.

“It’s gone Dwalin. The seals, the bindings, everythings gone and I’m me again. I’m all that I am and could be and I’m not an elf anymore but I’m not a maia. I’m a weapon and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what I’m meant to do besides kill. A war is coming, a great and terrible war, and I’m going to fight and I’m going to kill…and I’m so tired of killing Dwalin. I’m so tired of being the monster that everyone is meant to fear. I want to be a healer again. I want to help people stop hurting. I want to go to the Orcs and try and help them back to Eru and the Valar, to give them something more than Morgoth’s curse. Now that I’m unbound I could, I could, but it’s not…it’s not what I’m supposed to do and I hate it. I hate that I’m a good warrior. I hate that I’m a good soldier. I hate that I’ve even begun to like it.”

There were no sobs that wracked his body as he spilled his heart out to Dwalin. His voice merely trembled along with his body. Strong arms came up, tugging the elf down, forciably rearranging the slender being into a position that was easier to hold. Glorfindel felt no shame as he clutched at Dwalin’s armor and cried into his shoulder, listening to the comforting murmur of Khuzdul. Neither elf nor dwarf knew how long they stayed curled up together, but Glorfindel’s body finally stopped shaking and grew lax in Dwalin’s hold.

“I can’t remain here after whatever war comes.”

His voice was soft.

“If I don’t die I can’t stay. I’m too old, I’m too worn, I’ll need to go back to Valinor before I become a monster or Fade.”

“I know laddie.” Dwalin’s voice was gentle in its gruffness. “After this war if ye don’t step foot on a boat I’m going to tie you up and toss you on one meself. I’ll not…I’ll not have my… you suffer needlessly. If I thought I could do it now I would. I can’t, so you’re going to do whatever magical bullshit you need to do and you’re going back to where you belong.”

“I wish we had more time.”

“I know, laddie, so do I, so do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it's too weird. I am on a cocktail of painkillers that should kill a horse right now and had a rough night in the er, it wouldn't leave me alone though so...here.


	3. A Hobbit Flashback Pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did the dwarves escape Rivendell?

A warm hand clasped his as he swirled about upon the dance floor. The fingers were rough, gentle, and familiar all at once, and if Glorfindel had not known this was reality then he would have believed this a dream. A firm tug had the golden elf falling into arms that had not held him in over an Age. Arms that should have been across the sea. There was little joy to be found now in the dance, for it never boded well when Lorien came outside of a dream.

“Your lady will be jealous.”

There was an amused sigh in Glorfindel’s voice as he spoke to the vala lord. Impetuous, perhaps, but he was not one of the younger elves who had never walked in the presence of the valar. Irmo was his superior, his lord, but Irmo was also his friend and mentor.

“Only because I have come to see our favorite apprentice without her.”

“So I take it she lost whatever wager you two had made to who got to visit me?”

“Indeed. I believe she will forgive me in the next couple of decades.”

Glorfindel snorted, aware more than many the Valar were not as unflawed as was widely believed. No, Glorfindel had witnessed many spats between Este and Irmo, some resolved quickly and others lasting up to a century. Few of them had dealt with Glorfindel and the proper way to teach him. He remembered days where Este had tugged him to her and proclaimed that Glorfindel was _her_ apprentice not Lorien’s and that he should find his own instead of attempting to steal hers. Those fights had always been playful though and had ended usually with him pressed between the two.

“You are looking worn, Lostithennel.”

“And you do not look like yourself at all, Lorien, but I do not point out the obvious.”

“If you were any other your impudence would get you in trouble.”

“If I were any other you would not be dancing with me in a body made of flesh.”

Irmo laughed low in his throat, a warm chuckle that made Glorfindel yearn for his childhood once more. The youngest of six he had not been a priority amongst his family. Not that they didn’t love him. Glorfindel would never believe that they didn’t love him. It was simply they had not had much time for him. Only Galadriel had really truly paid attention to him on a consistent basis, but she had often grabbed attention for herself throwing tantrum and arguing with Father and Mother. Glorfindel had gotten some attention from his grandmother, but not a great deal. No, how odd it was to say, to point out that Glorfindel had spent a great deal of his childhood chasing after Irmo during the day and crawling into Este’s arms when she awoke at night. If he was a child, a true child, he could stop this dance and climb into Irmo’s arms and press into him feeling the maia of Dreams hum absent tunes or tell him stories.

The Vala was right. Glorfindel was worn. He was tired and he ached, he needed rest, he needed…

What he could not have.

“Perendhil looks like he has swallowed a particularly sour lemon.”

“Well is he looking in our direction?”

“Yes.”

“Ah then you shouldn’t take too much note of it. He often wears that expression while looking at me as of late. I think it’s because I managed to set myself on fire…and perhaps let thirteen dwarves and a hobbit escape Rivendell whilst I practiced alchemy.”

“Alchemy doesn’t exist. You know that.”

“Elrond doesn’t know that I don’t know that. I made my ‘chocolate chip cookie’ recipe.”

There was perhaps something glorious about being able to make a vala sigh and look to the sky for assistance. A smile curled at the corners of Irmo’s mouth and Glorfindel knew he wasn’t truly in trouble. Honestly if Olorin had stuck his large meddlesome nose into this current quest then it was more than likely Valar approved. It was that reason, and perhaps because the dwarves had brought about such a wonderful sense of life and adventure to the city, that Glorfindel had decided to help in their escape. There was also a tacit unspoken agreement between Olorin and Glorfindel, if Olorin needed help of the persuasive and or utterly sneaky variety then Glorfindel was to help, and in return Olorin would not speak a single solitary word of Glorfindel’s childhood in the earshot of any living being in Arda. It was a good agreement, one Glorfindel had kept to since the cloaked and hidden maia had showed up on Middle Earth’s shores.

It was the only reason that Glorfindel had called upon his childhood memories to recreate the chocolate chip cookie disaster. That was also the same incident that Aule himself had made locks to help childproof the potions supply cabinet in all the places where Glorfindel had frequented. In actuality Aule had managed to lock everyone save Glorfindel and Galadriel out of the potions supply cabinets, as was the way with safety measures for most children.

Ah the amusingly embarrassing memories of childhood. Of streaking with Galadriel through the palace during one of their Grandfather’s many important dinners for their mother had put them into ridiculous and uncomfortable finery. It had taken Orome to catch them and even then they had given the Vala of the Hunt a run for his money if only because they had managed to cover themselves in oil simply to make capture harder. Feanor and Marion had owed Aule two magic rings each at that, for a wager had been made that the children would not have been able to be captured until one of the Valar stepped in to intervene. 

Yavanna may have altered the odds as well with bribing them with candy to keep running.

What Feanor and Marion didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.

“I don’t think it’s that. I believe he is jealous. Perendhil doesn’t know that I am as lustful and attracted to you as he is to Arwen.”

“Oh, ick. Thanks _Ada_ , you had better give me sweet dreams tonight or I will be cross.”

Glorfindel didn’t care that his voice was dripping with sarcasm when speaking to a vala. Irmo had brought the sass upon himself as soon as he had taken Glorfindel under his wing and encouraged the elfling to be familiar with him. It seemed sometimes that he relished the informality that Glorfindel used with him. Yet he didn’t grin this time, not as he usually did. Instead Lorien frowned, his blue eyes going serious.

“You jest but you are closer to the truth than you realize, Lostithennel. Este and I tended to your personally, we sewed your soul back together with our hands, and your body was given pieces of ourselves, just as Finarfin and Earwen gave pieces of themselves to help rebuild your body. If there was any who could be our child, it would be you.”

No. This wasn’t right. Glorfindel was not…he wasn’t their favorite. Certainly there was another amongst his people in Valinor that had caught Irmo and Este’s attention, and even if one in Valinor hadn’t there were other elves who were far more worthy of being claimed as a child of Lorien and Este. It couldn’t be Glorfindel. Glorfindel wasn’t anyone’s favorite. Time had proven that for the youngest son of Finarfin more times than he could count or wanted to remember.

Irmo seemed to catch his thoughts, or simply knew far too well the life Glorfindel had lived. The Lord softened his expression and tightened his hold on Glorfindel. The words stopped between them for a moment as Glorfindel tried to collect his thoughts and emotions once more. This was not the reason for Irmo’s visit, he knew. Something larger was afoot, something that needed the intervention of the Valar, something that needed one of the few remaining agents that lingered to tend to.

Glorfindel didn’t want to ask though. He was lonely and hurt, he felt tired and thin. Confidants didn’t exist for him, the closest that came was Elrond and there were many days where Glorfindel couldn’t speak with the half-elven lord. How could he talk to Elrond about his knowledge of Elrond’s Choice? Celebrian or Glorfindel as his bondmate, as his lover and consort. How could Glorfindel talk about the lingering aching thread of bitterness that was in his heart? There had never been a choice for Glorfindel in this, that part of him loved and loved fiercely because that was simply who Glorfindel was. Destiny, fate, written in the bones of his soul. If Glorfindel had tried to deny it, tried to not love then he wouldn’t be himself anymore. He would have turned his back up Eru and the Valar. Even the knowledge that he hadn’t had a choice in this could not make the golden vanya hate the Lords he so loved and the God who he knelt before.

But Elrond had, and that hurt. Glorfindel wouldn’t deny that to himself. He was not enough, never enough.

Hatred could be born so easily in that. Evil could flourish. Except it didn’t, he just tried to piece himself back together and do his duty. Duty to the Valar was almost all he had left in him. Being here in Arda kept him far away from the ones he admired and respected, the ones who made him feel safe.

It was why he didn’t speak, he didn’t inquire or ask. Irmo would tell him when he needed to, but Glorfindel just wanted to press in and rest. He wanted to be protected for once in his long life, not take up the sword and do it himself as he had always done. So many people never wanted to be protected, never wanted to lean upon another and be propped up. Most of those people were mortals and did not understand the toll it took upon the soul to always be the strong one. For thousands of years he had been the strong one, the one who kept going, the one who kept waiting, the one who kept picking everything up and trying to put it all back together again.

“You have to go East.” Irmo’s voice finally cut through the empty space between them. “And you must hurry. Find the Eagles, tell them war is coming, and have them assemble. You all go to Erebor, but do not let them fly over Greenwood. Speak to Beorn and bring him as well, both of you must go through Mirkwood. Afterwards your true skills will be put to use…and Olorin will take the credit. This is key Lostithennel… Do not give the dwarves or men your real name, whatever else you do, do not do that.”

Many would have hesitated to nod their head at those instructions. To only sigh faintly at the duty given, no small feat to convince Eagles and a shapeshifter to go to war. The one thing that didn’t bother the golden elf was the lack of recognition. It wasn’t the first or the last time he had done tasks for the Valar and not used his name. Some he had done alone, without a single soul as witness. That suited him best, to do what was needed not for fame or glory or recognition…but because he had been asked and because it was right.

“When do I leave?”

“Tonight.”

Glorfindel nodded, though his hands hesitated as he tried to let go. Irmo did not glare nor did he find fault in Glorfindel’s reluctance. Instead Lorien smiled and brought Glorfindel closer, pressing dry lips to his forehead, sending warmth and love through the ancient elf. It was a balm on Glorfindel’s soul, fading as Irmo drew away though the memory lingered in Glorfindel’s heart. That was enough to give Glorfindel the strength to let go of those comforting familiar hands and walk off the dance floor. He knew, without a doubt, that Irmo was already gone and it would do no good to look behind.

Weaving through familiar halls Glorfindel found his room and took out his pack. He would have several days journey through the Misty Mountains til he reached one of the Eagle’s patrol routes, then he’d have several more til he got to Beorn’s. Greenwood would be unpredictable at best, whatever darkness was spreading there was going to make any venture through utterly unpleasant and draining. At the end of it all he had potentially a dragon, which considering all the things he’d faced Smaug would be an utterly unpleasant but not entirely insurmountable enemy (did the children of this Age not grasp how utterly blessed they were? Their monsters were the unwanted imbeciles of the First Age’s nightmares, from all accounts Smaug was perhaps a fourth of the size of the dragons of Morgoth. Still a decent size but nonetheless not the terrors Glorfindel faced at night).

“Where are you going?”

Elrond’s voice made Glorfindel startle. With a quick and unstifled swear Glorfindel clenched his hand around the handle of his dagger, grateful his reflexes had slowed over the last Age. If they hadn’t Elrond would be bleeding, again, and honestly Glorfindel had thought the elven lord would have remembered to make more noise before speaking. Thranduil certainly did when he was around.

“On an adventure.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed and Glorfindel felt the invading probe of Elrond’s touch inside his mind. The golden haired elf did not snarl, though he raised a single eyebrow as he tossed one of his dearest friends out of his mind. There had been no gentleness in Glorfindel’s rebuke and Elrond didn’t seem surprised, though irritation was flashing his dark eyes.

“What did he say to you? That _elf_.”

“He told me I needed to be somewhere that wasn’t here. As he has never led me astray before, I will go. Don’t worry I doubt you’ll see him again for many years, he’s going across the sea.”

“I don’t recognize him. He is not from Rivendell.”

“He is from Lorien. Elrond you will not get more from me unless you tap into Vilya’s power, and if you do that I don’t care if you are my friend I will punch you in the face.”

Glorfindel’s unnatural blue eyes rested on the dark haired lord of Rivendell. Elrond was the only one who he had spoken of his family with, the only one who Glorfindel had trusted enough to speak of Galadriel. Glorfindel had used soft almost broken words to describe his current state, his being bound in gentle chains made by the Valar, a price to be paid to be brought back to Middle Earth. He was cloaked like the istari, though few could tell it. Blue eyes, the shade of Manwe’s (and the subtle sign of who had bound him) own, were as natural on Glorfindel as if his hair suddenly turned to fire or water or earth. Elrond knew that, knew that Glorfindel was not entirely…was something not completely elven anymore and he had not breathed a word of it to any other. It was a mutual sign of trust.

One Glorfindel couldn’t help but know he violated. There was one thing being an agent of the Valar that was not so beneficial. He was the bearer of many secrets, secrets that had to be known to someone, but not everyone. Oh how they weighed upon him, the dark knowledge that would ruin Perendhil’s line if he dared to utter it aloud. Yet he wouldn’t, he would never let the truth fall from his lips and rarely let it touch his mind. The less it lingered where Elrond could accidentally catch it, the less it was likely to destroy Rivendell. His secrets made him long for the sea, it made him long for a ship to take him back. Had he not done enough yet?

He knew the answer to the question before he even asked it.

Yes and no.

“You are agitated. I don’t like it when you’re agitated Glorfindel. Things have a habit of turning bloody and dark when you become agitated. Something else is upsetting you.”

A gentle hand touched his shoulder and Glorfindel resisted the urge to lean into it. It wasn’t appropriate, and it wasn’t for him to take. Not right now, likely not ever. Turning his head away Glorfindel closed his eyes and steeled his heart.

“I can’t talk right now. Tell the twins they’re in charge of the Guards while I’m gone.”

“Glorfindel…”

“I’m going and when I come back you can scold me to your heart’s content.”

Elrond’s hand tightened for a moment on Glorfindel’s shoulder. It would leave a bruise, Glorfindel knew, but the golden elf didn’t care. When Elrond let go Glorfindel turned his entire body away, carefully making sure he had all the supplies necessary. 

It would be a long road to Erebor.


	4. An Interlude of Silly Sketches (Art chap)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And well one or two plot relevant pictures. None of them upsetting, this is mostly to give everyone a breather from the pain that I just put you through...and am going to put you through again fairly soon. The art really is just silly and terrible and meant to make most everyone laugh.

[](http://s155.photobucket.com/user/elluvias/media/GlorfindelExpressions_zps56e56822.jpg.html) [](http://s155.photobucket.com/user/elluvias/media/GlorfindelExpressions2_zps869e0b16.jpg.html) [](http://s155.photobucket.com/user/elluvias/media/GlorfindelExpressionsSuperSillyEdition_zpsc415a9ff.jpg.html) [](http://s155.photobucket.com/user/elluvias/media/GlorfindelFightFin_zps13bc9d50.jpg.html) [](http://s155.photobucket.com/user/elluvias/media/Glorfindel-Remade_zps0fca537f.jpg.html)


	5. Blast From the Past- Outside Looking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Battle of Five armies from Thranduil's point of view. The grammar is all weird mainly because I'm on enough painkillers to take down an elephant, you've been warned.

Thranduil has never feared Glorfindel. Perhaps he should, a wise man would fear any elf that had slain a Balrog and come back to tell the tale. Yet with all the death the elf has handed out over his long life, all the battles and wars he has survived, there is something undeniably painfully good inside him. Thranduil could remember times when he had been but a child, being caught in those strong arms and held aloft, being told he was flying like an Eagle of Manwe. Thranduil could remember the gentle hand that touched his brow, that soothed him when nightmares came and of magic like no other he has ever felt settling into his bones and mending all that had been broken within him.

Thranduil has never feared Glorfindel, despite the awareness of how broken the elder was inside. It was never too hard to see, if one simply looked for it. Despite the cracks, there are no smudges of darkness, no taint, or blemishes. Glorfindel glows, when placed in the right space, something warm and bright like mid-morning sun.

Thranduil does not, has not, and will never fear Glorfindel.

Whatever is wearing Glorfindel’s skin is another matter entirely.

It is also only Gandalf’s staying hand that has Thranduil not pulling his sword to attack whatever is there in the tent with them. Mithrandir would never lead them wrong, would never let evil be here or remain in the body of someone that Thranduil knows without a doubt is dear to the wizard. There is something afoot and Thranduil cannot, will not like it. It is wearing his friend’s skin, that is reason enough alone to feel hostile.

“My Lady.”

Gandalf bowed his head in reverence and respect, and Thranduil will not do so.

“…Mithrandir.”

The cadence is wrong, the tone and lilt are all wrong and it scrapes across Thranduil’s skin like warg claws.

“What do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“There is work to be done, people to be mended. If I did not interfere then the path that would have been left would have been dark indeed. I have come here, specifically, to request aide for the sister-sons of Thorin Oakenshield. Fix them as you are able.”

Whatever was wearing Glorfindel had his friend’s eyes turn to him and it is then that Thranduil is struck with the knowledge that Glorfindel is glowing. That there is light in his eyes that appear to almost be like mist, obscuring the iris and allowing the pupil to shine almost eerily. As if whatever was inside Glorfindel was far too large for his body, far too bright, like someone had shoved a star inside.

“What will you be doing as we _fix_ the dwarves?”

Thranduil couldn’t muster respect even if he tried. He is tired from battle, sore, bleeding, and it was Glorfindel who had saved him. Saved him by appearing out of nowhere clad in his mithril armor and beating back orcs and wargs. It wasn’t even the most impressive part of the battle really, that had come when the Eagles had showed up and Glorfindel had screeched, calling one down and taking to the air. The little spark of admiration, the tiny bubble of hero worship that even he over seven thousand years of age could not let go of, had swelled to see a legend fight like the stories had said. An elf with the eagles. It could not have been more fanciful or ridiculous if Ecthelion or Egalmoth had decided to drop in as well. Well it would have been, Thranduil had seen them Fade, seen them die…Glorfindel at least was still living. Even minutes before Glorfindel had been Glorfindel, boisterous and larger than life with a crude edge, a step apart from his fellow elves, not Noldor or Sindar.

“I will be fixing Thorin Oakenshield.” Glorfindel’s head tilted and his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, and it was an expression that was most definitely not Glorfindel’s. “You will also speak nothing of Glorfindel’s presence nor will you name him as the healer.”

There is an argument at the tip of his tongue. Why should he and his kin pretend one of the greatest elven warriors that had ever existed had never shown up and helped to save their collective lives? Why should he not give Glorfindel the honor due to him, that men and dwarves not recognize that a legend walked in their midst? The look in the eye of the being wearing Glorfindel makes him hold it though, if it is strong enough to possess Glorfindel, if it is strong enough to hold itself in place in Glorfindel’s body, then Thranduil ought not to antagonize it too greatly.

“Fine. I’d rather not have Glorfindel mobbed by others asking about the Balrog. Good day.”

His voice is curt bordering on rude as he sweeps past the not Glorfindel and Mithrandir. When he’s outside his tent he snaps the order in Sindarin to keep Glorfindel’s identity secret, that if they must mention him it is to only be in sindarin a language the dwarves refuse to learn and the men of Laketown ignore. Thranduil’s foul temper doesn’t leave even when he makes it to the dwarven camp and into the young princes’ tent, and the resulting shouting match nearly devolves to blows before he is allowed to fix the young heirs.

It is tedious work, draining work, especially since Thranduil did not have much left to give at the moment. The battle of five armies had wearied him greatly. Still he does not stop or waver in his task, piecing the dwarves back together muttering under his breath healing spells and foul insults that would have had his father, if he were still alive, reaching for a bar of soap. It’s hours later when Thranduil declares the princes ‘not quite as dead as they were before’. That’s all the reassurance Thranduil will give them before he mutters he will return tomorrow to finish what he started.

Leaving the tent Thranduil is greeted by perhaps the most bewildering scene he had ever encountered in his very long life, the second was perhaps walking into his sons’ playroom only to find his eldest son trussed up like freshly killed game with moose horns glued to his head while Legolas was prancing about the room in a borrowed dress from his mother’s wardrobe while the middle child was holding up a cat making noise that was somewhere between singing and wailing. Thranduil had then wisely backed out of the room and fetched his wife, for insanity like that had obviously not come from his side of the family and he was not dealing with it alone. Right now Thranduil wished he could march back into the forest, fetch his esteemed wife, and have her help him figure out how to deal with his current predicament.

The upside was apparently that Glorfindel was back inside his body and in control once more. The downside was that Glorfindel had latched himself onto a dwarf. Not just any dwarf either, but one of the ones whom Thranduil had imprisoned. The dwarf was smaller than the rest had been, younger perhaps as well. Thranduil had always felt that that particular dwarf had had the most unfortunate haircut of all the Company, like someone had shoved a bowl over the poor thing’s head and cut around it. The dwarf was dirty though and tired and looked more than a little bewildered to have gained an elf as a fashion accessory.

Thranduil is about to march over, pry his friend off the dwarf and drag him back to the elven camp. It can’t be good for his friend to be so close to a dwarf, to be touching a dwarf so. Except the dwarf in question hesitantly puts his hand upon Glorfindel’s golden head and pets him, murmuring something to the elf as if to reassure him. Glorfindel seems to slump even more into the dwarf, letting the small but sturdy being hold him up and Thranduil is very much at a loss as to what to do. He’s stunned to the point of total inaction as the dwarf helps to bring Glorfindel somewhat to his feet, steadying him and not breaking physical contact as the dwarf led Glorfindel to another healing tent. They do not emerge after a five minutes and Thranduil can only assume they have settled there.

It’s a perplexing puzzle, one that seems far too big for even an elvenking to unravel. He doesn’t want to let go of it, even though he does. His wife isn’t there to translate any of the oddness, the insanity, before him and without her there to translate Thranduil is fairly certain he’ll just make a mess of things.

He’ll just settle upon having the headache that’s building up behind his eyes and the knowledge that while he may never fear Glorfindel, it doesn’t mean he can’t be afraid for Glorfindel. When he gets back to his tent he finds Mithrandir sitting in his tent perusing some reports.

“I don’t know how or why you have done it, but I blame you for everything.” Thranduil grumbles, pointing a finger at the wizard as he speaks before starting to shed his bloodied clothes and armor. “And if you aren’t quiet while I rest I will find a way to set you on fire.”

Crawling into his bed Thranduil soon falls asleep to the odd lullaby of the wizard’s laughter, with the silent prayer that tomorrow makes more sense than today.


End file.
